


What to Get for the Malfoy That Has Everything

by BrandonStrayne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Birthday Presents, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandonStrayne/pseuds/BrandonStrayne
Summary: Draco isn't a fan of Harry's new tattoo at first, but it grows on him.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 179





	What to Get for the Malfoy That Has Everything

**Author's Note:**

> I have three of the best betas imagineable and I am forever grateful for them.[OllieMaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olliemaye), [Drarryismymuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatchersn/pseuds/Drarryismymuse), and [Keep_Calm_and_Expecto_Patronum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_calm_and_expecto_patronum), your encouragement and suggestions for improvement are invaluable. Thank you so much for all of your help! Any remaining mistakes are my own.

“That was delicious. Now, where’s my gift, Potter?” Draco set his knife and fork down on his now empty plate and sat back in his chair. His fortieth birthday had been perfect so far. Harry had let him sleep in until a truly luxurious hour while he had delivered their children into the care of Molly and Arthur, who never seemed to tire of their grandchildren running amok in the Burrow. When he’d finally deemed it a fitting time to rise, Harry had served him his favourite breakfast in bed, eggs Benedict, which was far too rich for any random day, but everyone knew that calories consumed on your birthday didn’t count. He had then spent the afternoon being massaged and pampered and beautified in a spa while Harry had run errands, and then they had returned to a blissfully empty and quiet home and Harry prepared them a perfectly cooked steak dinner—medium-rare for Harry and rare for himself.

The only thing that was missing was his present.

“I thought we said we weren’t going to buy each other gifts this year,  _ Malfoy _ ,” Harry teased, the monikers now only used in a teasing way and no longer dripping with the disdain and—to be frank—sexual tension that they were coated with when they were young. “We agreed that we have everything that we could possibly want already, did we not?”

Harry was watching him with an expectant look, one eyebrow raised, as he began washing the dishes. They had a perfectly functional dishwasher, not to mention that they were wizards and could simply use magic, but Harry liked to wash the dishes by hand. He always said he found it relaxing. Draco never really understood it, but at least Harry didn’t make Draco help; he hated when his fingers turned all pruney.

Draco pursed his lips. Technically, he  _ had _ agreed to that. But it wasn’t fair to hold someone to the crazy notions that they think are brilliant on New Year’s Eve after more flutes of champagne than they can recall.

At Draco’s sour look, Harry laughed, teeth beaming through a wide smile. “It’s a good thing I have learned a thing or two about my husband over the years.”

Draco’s mouth lifted at one corner. “And to think I used to think you were a bit of a dolt.” Harry let out an undignified snort as he began rinsing off their plates, setting them in the dish rack beside the sink to air dry. Draco watched his husband for a few minutes, patience gradually eroding away before he finally snapped, “Well? Let’s see it then!”

Harry ignored him, taking his sweet time to rinse the last few dishes before wiping down the counter around the sink to remove the excess water that had splashed out.

“You’re such a prat sometimes,” Draco accused.

“Alright, alright. Don’t get your knickers in a twist!” Harry said, chuckling. He wrung out the dishcloth and then threw it over the curved faucet, spreading it out so it would dry. Harry circled around the large marble-topped kitchen island and padded towards Draco, where he was still seated at the dining table. Coming to a stop a foot or so in front of Draco, Harry instructed, “Stand up.”

Draco stood, their bodies grazing against one another for a fleeting second. He instinctively leaned in, drawn in by the mint and sawdust smell that always clung to Harry’s skin from his days spent in his woodshop, designing the next top-of-the-line racing broom. Harry looked up, brushing their lips together in a feather-soft kiss before pulling back, his hands moving to the bottom hemline of his jumper.

Harry lifted the garment up in one smooth motion; it would have looked very suave if the collar hadn’t snagged on the metal frames of his glasses and sent them askew on his face. Draco reached up and straightened them, an amused leer on his face as Harry looked sheepishly at him. With the ocular distraction cleared away, Draco took the time to appreciate Harry’s naked torso; shorter than Draco, Harry’s body was powerful, his arm muscles sculpted from hours of shaping rare woods with his hands.

Draco lifted his hand and let his index finger, only the pad, trace a path down from the centre of Harry’s collarbone, down past the faint lines of his abdominal muscles, and finally hooking the first phalange behind the button of Harry’s denims. “Mmmm, a gift that is sure to please,” Draco murmured. “But I’d rather unwrap you myself.”

Harry let out yet another of those snorts, which only impeded Draco’s arousal the tiniest fraction—a testament to how much Draco loved the man. “That’s not what I got for you.” Harry took Draco’s hand in his and pulled it away from the growing bulge in the heavy blue material.

Before Draco could come up with a clever retort, Harry was taking a step back and spinning around. It took Draco a few moments to process the image in front of him. An ethereal blue scorpion was tattooed on the back of Harry’s shoulder, a perfect replica of Draco’s Patronus. As he watched, the creature skittered across the expanse of Harry’s back and took up residence on the other shoulder.

“Merlin, that feels odd!” Harry huffed out, turning his head to look over the shoulder which now held the little creature. “What do you think?”

“This is my present?” Draco asked carefully.

“Umm...yeah?” Harry said uncertainly. “Don’t you like it?”

Draco eyed the tattoo critically. “I don’t remember ever asking for you to disfigure yourself,” he said, the words delivered in a clipped staccato as he took a step back.

“I didn’t ‘disfigure’ myself, Draco,” Harry said, turning back around to face his husband. “I just wanted to do something that showed how important you are to me, to honour you.”

Draco unconsciously clamped his hand over his left forearm, over the faded Dark Mark. Harry’s eyes darted down to catch the movement and concern swept over his features, but before he could say anything, Draco cut him off, “I’ve just remembered that I have some paperwork that I need to finish.”

Draco didn’t turn around at Harry’s call, walking determinedly to their living room and disappearing through the Floo.

Several hours later, after he’d hidden out in his office for long enough that he was sure Harry would have retired to bed already, Draco returned home. Harry had left the small table lamp on in the living room for him so that he wouldn’t trip over the ottoman which always seemed to move around of its own accord as soon as the lights went out, and he switched it off once he’d cleared the infernal footrest before tiptoeing up the stairs—staying to the right for the first 3 steps, skipping the 4th entirely, and then switching to the left side for the remainder to avoid all of the creaks.

As he’d hoped, Harry was already in bed, the rich, champagne-coloured damask duvet rising and falling with his deep breaths. Here, too, Harry had left a light on for him, a small glow lighting up Draco’s side of the bed and giving him enough light to see by to make his way into the bathroom for his nightly ablutions.

When he slid between the soft sheets once he was done, Draco turned onto his side, his back to Harry, and lay there for several long minutes, sleep evading him. He hated this feeling of distance between them, but he’d been so taken by surprise by his reaction to the sight of the tattoo that he hadn’t been ready to talk about it just yet. He still wasn’t, to be honest. He knew that Harry’s tattoo carried none of the implications of fear-inspired loyalty that the Dark Mark did, but that was the first thought that had flashed across his mind when he’d seen it, and he’d panicked.

The bed creaked as Harry shifted behind him and some of Draco’s tension oozed out of him when Harry’s rough palm slid over Draco’s waist and slipped up his torso. Draco’s body began to warm as Harry’s hot skin pulled in snug against Draco’s back. Harry’s body was always emitting heat—it was like sleeping next to a blast furnace—and Draco loved it, taking solace in the thought that they complemented each other, Draco’s poor circulation often leaving his extremities cold to the touch.

“I’m sorry, D,” Harry murmured into the shorn hair on the back of Draco’s neck, the arm wrapped around Draco flexing and pulling him in closer. “I wasn’t thinking. It never even occurred to me that it would remind you of your Mark.”

Draco enclosed Harry’s strong hand between his own, stroking the skin between each knuckle softly before trailing his finger over the peak of one knuckle and down into the next valley. “I’m sorry I had a snit and ran off,” he offered softly.

Draco could feel the huff of air escaping Harry’s nose and he imagined he could feel the shift of Harry’s lips as he smiled behind him. “What else is new?” he joked, placing a kiss on the sensitive patch of skin just behind Draco’s ear.

“Careful, or yet another snit might be in your near future,” Draco warned, but there was no heat to his threat and Harry settled in behind him, his muscles relaxing, the weight of his arm grounding Draco to him.

“I love you. And your snits,” Harry mumbled, sleep already threatening to overtake him. Draco didn’t know how he could do that; Harry’s head would barely grace the pillow before he was conked out and dead to the world, whereas Draco could lay there for hours with his mind running marathons before he would finally slip off to sleep. Draco turned his arm so that the faded outline of the entwined snake and skull was just barely visible with the low light of the moon shining in through the window.

It was hours before sleep overcame him.

  
  


⪻⚹⪼

  
  


Draco’s eyes fluttered open before closing again, the sunshine of mid-morning streaming in between the curtains and tracing a path across his face. Draco groaned and turned on his side, putting his back to the too-bright light and tried again, his eyes drifting open. Harry was still asleep beside him, his arms underneath his pillow and his head turned away from Draco. He was breathing heavily, just short of a snore, and Draco’s eyes traced the beautiful chaotic whorls of Harry’s hair until his eyes drifted down to the scorpion tattoo, which had shifted back to the other shoulder again, closest to Draco.

Tentatively, Draco lifted his hand and held it over Harry’s skin, his fingertips close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating up and encircling them. He let his middle finger descend, just barely grazing the powder-blue and white mist of the Patronus.

He jerked his hand away when the Patronus moved, the pincers closing and opening as if in recognition of him. Feeling silly, he returned his finger, tracing all the way around the small creature, following the curve of the tail up and around and then back along the dorsal side of the image.

Harry shifted, his neck lifting and his head turning to face Draco before collapsing back onto the pillow. His left arm came out from underneath and flattened the pillow, clearing the space between him and Draco, and he smiled sleepily.

“Mmmmorning,” he mumbled, the first consonant spreading out into a long moan as his eyes drifted closed again. Draco pulled back his hand and Harry’s eyelids lifted again. “That felt nice.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Draco asked nervously.

“No,” Harry yawned before adding, “Healing Charm worked wonders.”

Draco couldn’t relate; his only experience with tattoos had been extremely painful, and there had most certainly not been any Healing Charms involved. Draco pushed aside those dark memories and returned to stroking his finger over Harry’s new tattoo. “What does it feel like?”

Harry shifted closer, moving his arm so that his hand rested over Draco’s left forearm, his thumb stroking back and forth over the faded red mark. Draco suppressed the urge to yank his arm away. Even all these years later, it still felt weird when Harry so casually touched it. He couldn’t shake the fear that Harry would absorb some of the evil that birthed the Mark.

“Feels kind of tingly, sort of ticklish, but not so helpless. I think it likes you.”

Draco let out a huff of amusement. “It’s not  _ real _ Harry. It doesn’t have sentience.”

The drawing shifted quickly under him as Harry shrugged, and the scorpion ran in a small circle before slipping back underneath Draco’s point of contact.

“I take it yours doesn’t feel like that?”

Draco froze at Harry’s soft question and then slowly pulled his arm out from under Harry’s hand. Turning on his back, Draco stared up at the ceiling. “No, it never felt like that.”

Harry shifted, rolling over onto his side and sliding across the bed, invading Draco’s side and propping his head up on his arm. “You know you can talk about it with me.”

Draco sighed and closed his eyes, wishing they’d just get off this topic already. His husband, obtuse as ever, didn’t seem to get the message. “Hermione says that—”

“Oh, do tell me. What does  _ Hermione _ have to say about MY Mark?” Draco snapped. Truthfully, he actually rather liked Hermione these days; she was the only one of Harry’s friend who had any idea about classical music, which was the salad fork, or who knew there was more types of wine than ‘red’, ‘white’, and ‘pink’. It was just that he was feeling defensive, and when he was feeling defensive, he handled it by going on the offensive.

He and Harry had been together long enough that Harry knew all too well about this bad habit of his, and all he did was smile knowingly at him before continuing, “She says that talking about these things can help you come to terms with them.”

“Yeah? You know what else can help? Firewhisky.”

Harry ignored him. “It’s quite popular among Muggles. It’s called psychotherapy.”

Draco didn’t say anything, just clenched his jaw and stared up at the ceiling. Harry sighed and raised his hand, stroking the back of one bent finger against the outside of Draco’s arm. “I’m not going to push you, but I just want you to know that if you ever  _ do _ want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”

Draco softened, relieved that Harry was willing to drop the matter. This wasn’t the first time they had had this conversation and Draco was sure it wasn’t the last. And maybe one day he would take Harry up on his offer, but he had been raised to believe that it was improper to express your emotions and that you should have a ‘stiff upper lip’ about your problems, and it was hard to break himself of that habit of thought. He’d changed so dramatically in so many ways since he and Harry had gotten together, a wrestling fight in one of the half-destroyed hallways of Hogwarts turning into an intense snogging session full of teeth and tongues and sweet torture; maybe one day he would be ready to talk about the burning torture and sensation that he would never be free of again, that had sunk into every cell of his body when Tom Riddle had marred his flesh with his foul brand, but today was not that day.

He lifted the arm that was lying between Harry and himself and draped it across the pillows. Harry didn’t even hesitate, readily accepting Draco’s unspoken invitation and shuffling closer, resting his head in the hollow beside his shoulder joint. “I promise that if I’m ever wanting to talk about it, you’ll be my first call.”

Harry let out a satisfied sigh, his warm breath ghosting over Draco’s chest as his arm slipped over his stomach and pulled their naked bodies together. Draco could feel the semi-engorged firmness of Harry’s cock pressing against his thigh, but judging by the way Harry settled in against him, he didn’t seem desperate to do anything about it, so Draco let his eyes drift closed.

Bending the arm that Harry was resting on, Draco wrapped it around his husband and absentmindedly stroked the little scorpion again.

  
  


⪻⚹⪼

  
  


Draco found himself softening over the next few weeks—towards Harry’s new adornment, that is. In one specific context, though, Draco was anything but soft. It had started with those first few soft, tentative strokes. A habit slowly began forming: no sooner than Draco would flutter his eyes open in the morning, he would find his hand drawn to the scorpion. It was his new morning routine, greeting his Patronus doppelganger. And he started to wonder if Harry had perhaps been right about the scorpion having a fondness for him; the tattoo would almost always greet him with a cheerful clicking motion of his pincers and would scamper from shoulder to shoulder as if seeking out Draco’s touch when he would eventually pull his hand away, his day’s schedule demanding he pull himself from their cosy bed.

It wasn’t long before that small oval of flesh, wherever the scorpion happened to be at any given moment, became an irresistible draw for Draco. He would stroke Harry’s shoulder as he walked past him sitting on the sofa to make them both tea. His lips would graze against that ethereal blue figure as they showered together, an amused chuckle chased by a tongue clap as he sucked in a gusty breath at the sensation. The scorpion liked to be kissed.

But even more than Draco’s kisses, the scorpion seemed to go wild for Draco’s bite. They had been in the throes of passion, alternating moans and gasps emerging from between Harry’s lips with every thrust of Draco’s hips, with each grinding swivel of his cock in Harry’s arse. Harry was close, his back arching in a silent plea for deeper, harder, that Draco was more than happy to provide. Draco had dropped down to his forearms, locking Harry beneath his body as Draco had undulated against him, swirling his cock around Harry’s tight confines and swiping repeatedly against his prostate.

He could feel a trickle of sweat emerge from his hairline and forge a slow path down his forehead, down his sharp, angular nose, and dangle precariously there at the tip for a moment until one particular thrust of Harry’s arse back onto his cock caused it to finally break free. Draco opened his eyes to see the small half-globe of moisture resting in the nook of Harry’s spine, but then his eyes had been drawn over to the scorpion, who was flexing its tail and running in circles, as if he could sense Harry’s impending climax.

Draco wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it in that moment—biting was not often deployed in their sex life—but the sudden urge had overcome him and before he knew it, his mouth was full of Harry’s trapezius and Harry let out a moan of such incomprehensible desperation that Draco’s eyes rolled back in his head at the sound. He let the flesh go, pushing himself up on his hands, his cock buried as far as it could possibly get without the deployment of a rather risky Engorgio Charm, and peeled his eyes open.

Below him, the scorpion seemed to be infused with more energy than it knew what to do with, darting all over Harry’s back, as if bristling at the confinement. Then, suddenly, it slipped around the side of Harry’s ribs and out of sight, as if it finally solved a frustrating puzzle it had been stymied by, and that was the moment of birth of Draco’s plan, though he was far too distracted at the moment to put much thought towards it.

Beneath him, Harry’s body began to jerk, his hands seizing and releasing over and over the expensive bed sheet below him, and Draco felt the moment that Harry’s orgasm hit. A loud keening wail was wrenched out of Harry’s throat and his arse seized, clamping around Draco’s cock in a rhythmic motion with each pulse of Harry’s orgasm.

The tight squeeze and stroke of Harry’s inner walls was all that was needed, and Draco spilled into his husband’s welcoming, wet heat. An amused chuckle was pulled from Draco when the scorpion reappeared, lazily meandering his way up and across Harry’s back as Harry’s body was wracked with a few residual spasms that milked Draco’s cock of all he had to offer. The damn thing looked downright smug, clacking one of his pincers at Draco as if tipping an imaginary hat to him.

Draco slowly pulled himself free from Harry’s well-fucked arse and then crashed down beside him on the bed, breathing heavily. He didn’t have to look at his husband to know he was wearing a shit-eating grin as he hazily muttered, “Admit it, the tattoo is growing on you.”

Draco smirked up at the ceiling before he conceded, “It’s not entirely without its appeal.”

  
  


⪻⚹⪼

  
  


“Draco, is that you?”

Draco grinned to himself at Harry’s greeting, itching to reveal the special surprise he’d brought home for his husband—well, and for himself.

“Who else would it be, Potter?” he called back, slipping off his work robes and hanging them by the door. He walked down the hallway and downstairs to the kitchen.

“It could be any of the people I’ve given a key to,” Harry said nonchalantly.

Draco froze, a pilfered stalk of celery from the crudités tray that Harry had prepared halfway to his mouth. “Who have you given keys to?” he asked accusingly.

Harry shrugged. “Ron, Hermione, Molly, Arthur, George—”

“Merlin, is there any Weasley that  _ can’t _ come traipsing into our home any bloody time they like?” Draco huffed out, taking an annoyed chomp out of his celery stalk.

Harry seemed to be contemplating the question for a few moments before holding a finger in the air, as if something just dawned on him. “Percy doesn’t have a key,” he replied. After a pause, he added, “But Audrey does.” When Draco shot him an aggrieved look, Harry held his hands up and shrugged innocently. “What? I thought she would be willing to feed our cat if we went out of town.”

“We don’t have a cat, Potter,” Draco bit out through a tense jaw.

“Well, now if we ever get one, we already have someone that can catsit for us,” Harry proclaimed, laughing amusedly at Draco’s less-than-thrilled expression.

“You’re really annoying, do you know that?” Draco asked.

“So, why are you home so late?” Harry asked, bending over and pulling open the oven door to inspect the lasagna he had baking and then pulling it out and setting it on the stovetop.

“I stopped on the way home from work and got you a little surprise, but now I don’t know if you deserve it,” Draco teased, pushing aside the potential Weasley invasion for a later time.

“Okay, well if that’s how you feel…” Harry trailed off, watching Draco with an expectant look. The git knew that Draco wouldn’t be able to wait to give him his present. Delayed gratification was never one of Draco’s strong suits.

“I thought we could do a little walk down memory lane and let you relive one of your glory moments,” Draco hinted, walking over to lean against the dining table and regard Harry from under low, fluttering eyelids.

As Draco slowly began to unbutton the front of his shirt, Harry circled around the island with a hungry look that had nothing to do with the delicious lasagna and walked up to him, but Draco held him back with a hand to his chest when Harry reached for him.

“Patience,” Draco chastised. Harry took a couple of steps back and his lips quivered with a barely suppressed amused grin.

“By all means, take your time,” Harry said.

Draco resumed his unbuttoning, lingering on each button for a decadent, leisurely amount of time, until finally the two halves of the shirt were separated and he brushed them back to expose the pale expanse of skin, several long scars streaking diagonally across it.

They stared at each other for a drawn-out moment, a silent showdown, waiting to see who would break first. Smirking to himself, Draco lifted his arms and began on the buttons of his cuffs. A thrill of triumph fuelling his arousal when Harry’s confident amusement bled into lusty frustration.

“The lasagna is going to be ice cold by the time you get that shirt off, Malfoy,” Harry ground out.

Taking pity on him, Draco sped up, freeing his wrists of the cuffs in much less time than he took with the other buttons. When the shirt was loose and ready to be removed, Draco asked, “Are you ready?”

“I was  _ ready _ twenty minutes ago,” Harry groaned out.

Draco let the shirt drop, falling into a pile on the dining table, and then he leaned forward so he was standing and turned around. He didn’t miss the surprised gasp of air that Harry sucked in when he saw the small gold ball with delicate silver wings emerging from it. He felt the air move, heating, as Harry stepped up to him to get a closer look at Draco’s new tattoo. A Golden Snitch with the words ‘ _ I open at the close _ ’ etched onto it.

“I thought you didn’t like my tattoo,” Harry accused, but his tone was laced with amusement and fondness that told Draco that his gift was greatly appreciated.

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s grown on me.”

“I love it, Draco. It looks beautiful on you.”

Draco turned his head to look over his shoulder at his husband. “You have me on you, and now I have you on me.” As he spoke, Harry raised his hand and ran his finger along one of the wings and the Snitch fluttered to life. Far more energetic than Harry’s, the Snitch fluttered back and forth all over his back, pausing briefly only to flitter off to a new spot moments later. “Merlin, that does feel really weird!”

Harry chuckled. “Feels really nice though, right?” he asked knowingly. And he had not been lying about that. The tattoo’s movement tickled across his skin, as if there was a pair of lips coursing all over his back, only beneath the outer layer of skin. He could feel goosepimples rising on his skin as his blood flow seemed to increase with the invisible touch.

Harry’s hand traced paths across his skin, zig-zagging across his back and circling around to his chest when the Snitch looped around Draco’s ribs, the silver wings fluttering on either side of his nipple. Harry pulled him close and Draco’s head dropped to the side as Harry’s head peeked over his shoulder to watch the Snitch.

Draco licked his lips in anticipation. “Didn’t you catch that Snitch with your mouth, Potter?”

Harry groaned and then pulled Draco’s head around to plant a breath-stealing kiss on his lips that left Draco panting. Harry spun him around and dipped down, his lips barely making contact with the Snitch covered skin before it evaded him, darting off to a new location. Harry spent the next twenty minutes chasing the Snitch around the pitch of Draco’s body, roughly yanking down Draco’s trousers and pants in one go when the Snitch  _ finally _ ducked below his waistband.

Draco guessed that Harry had kissed and licked and sucked every inch of his body by the time he finally managed to catch the Snitch, the silver wings fluttering as they emerged from between Harry’s lips, which were wrapped tightly around the head of Draco’s cock.

“150 points to Gryffindor,” Draco panted as the Seeking game ended and Harry’s focus turned to sucking.


End file.
